Conversations of Prideful Fools
by Little Boy of Lothering
Summary: This is not a story of love, nor is it a story of success. It is instead a story of falsehood and ultimately failure.


Yeah. So, uh, hey, what's up? Anyway, this is over 12,000 words. Yay! Also, READ THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE, for it's going to take a bit of an explanation.

Originally, this was a story born from an inside joke. Or at least that's where the character and basic idea came from. You see, my friend and I got pretty annoyed at the whole 'slave falls for master' thing. Really, really annoyed. So I said, "You know what? I'm going to write one with Voldemort as if his side one they took Mudbloods as slaves." Reason behind the cliche: this is technically a parody. Just I made it serious. Because I could.

Yes, Voldemort is extremely OOC...until the end. You'll see what I mean. After all, they all fall prey (or at least appear to) for the pretty ones.

Also, my character has a Greek accent, and it was a pain in the ass to write. I got how to write it off of the internet. You may have to use context clues to fully understand her.

Summary: This is not a story of love, nor of success. It is instead a story of falsehood and failure.

I do not own HP, only Helen.

She was in an invisible cage, one without bars made of iron or steel or bronze or any form of metal. In this cage, the bars were made of people—people with tattoos on their arms and wicked smiles on their faces and the personalities of the deadliest of poisons. To live in this life was to live a story, the kind of story you read to remind yourself that reality is good no matter what the circumstances.

Needless to say, there was no reason to read that kind of story anymore.

Out on the stage she stood, dressed in the clothes she had been given, in the prison grey they had thrown at her earlier that day. It was better, in a way, than the standard cut black ones she and the others had worn up until this morning, up until they were issued a different color. A different color most would probably only wear for a day. Honestly, she'd rather wear nothing at all. In some sick, twisted way, it was less degrading.

Most people didn't see it that way.

Five people had gone before her. There was one man three years her senior that she called her friend at one point. Now he was gone. Possibly they'd see each other again one day, but it was unlikely. Her friend had been weak in the mind and in the body and would easily do the bidding of whoever bought him. His "owner" had bought him for a low price. That, she thought, was more degrading than walking around in this prison grey.

Most people agreed with her.

It was her turn now and she stepped up, standing in front of all the people, all those who were willing to buy her. They wanted to boss her around, make her do this and that, anything of any nature. No one in the audience or behind her or the announcer seemed to noticed an irony created from this situation. She was on a stage and they were down the below and a spot light was on her. Her mouth spread into a malicious smile at the realization.

She was above those who thought her below them.

"And this is Number Six!" said the man next to her, trying to keep the upbeat tone of salesman going. He was doing quite well. "For a Mudblood, it's certainly a pretty little thing, ain't it? Twenty-seven, healthy enough, shows signs of keeping those good looks of a few years to come—"

"Do you ree-ally theenk zo?" she asked, cutting him off. There was a gasp of surprise from everyone around her. After all, what slave dared speak out publicly? "I thank you for the comply-ment. What every woman wantz to chear eez a rant on cher—" She was cut off by a hard slap on her face, one that left her dizzy.

"Silence, Number Six!" It was more of a snarl than anything else. Giving another good look at the man, she smiled again, realizing this was one of the cruelest slavers in the group. Only a slap? Lucky, wasn't she? "Well, as you can see," he continued awkwardly, "it's still got some fight in it, but I'm sure you'll be able to break it down in no time. If not, just kill it, we'll give you your money back! We'll start at ten Galleons—"

"Do you ree-ally theenk me zo tsee-ap?" she said, putting on her best appalled face, earning another slap. She snapped her head back. "We'll ztart a muts chigh-eer price, but a ree-azonable one—chow about forty Galleons? I'm geeveeng you a bargain, I azoor you I'm muts more expenzive." The man next to her was in so much shock he couldn't speak. "Come on, you're all rits, you can afford it eaz-eely, can't you? Time to show off your money to all your friendz. Pay over four _hundred _Gallee-onz and—"

Her vocal cords were restricted by the slaver. With all her hatred, she glared at him. He was impassive despite the intensity.

"Starting at one Galleon!" he said again, but he couldn't speak for long because an audience member cut him off.

"I'll buy her for one hundred and six Galleons," said the person. Though he didn't yell, his voice carried and they could hear him clearly. She searched around in the crowd to find him and she did so almost instantly.

He stood in the middle and he was no one she recognized. An ugly man if she'd ever seen one. His appearance reminded him of two boys her step-son in Hogwarts had described to her, two Slytherin seventh years who had tortured him on more than one occasion. But that was all before…before…That was last year. It was possible—the buyer looked at least twenty years older than her, certainly at the right age to have what would now be an eighteen-or-nineteen-year-old son.

"Starting at one hundred and six Galleons!" said the man next to her, by now sounding quite confused. Not even she had a sassy reply, mostly because she was rather surprised herself. To be frank, she was hoping her sharp tongue would scare them off, not encourage them. Hard to believe it did the opposite. "Will anyone give a higher bid? Going once…twice…" He paused. "SOLD!"

Her face hurt. Badly.

A slaver led her away, practically dragging her by the arm. Her new "owner" met them at the bottom. He was even uglier up close, which gave her just a small bit of satisfaction. Nodding as a silent thank you, he grabbed her other arm as the slaver released her. Then he paid and the two Apparated away, appearing at a plain but large house. How fitting. The man turned to her, pulling a wand out of his pocket. With the use of a nonverbal spell, he undid the seal on her vocal cords.

"And what might your nay-me be?" she said, having to get in the first word.

"Crabbe," the man said and it was practically a grunt. He let go of her arm. His shoulders sagged. Intrigued, she looked over him again. This Crabbe seemed to be a sad man, one weighed down by something that wouldn't leave. Normally she wasn't good at reading people, but this man was easy whether he realized it or not.

Why would a sad man get a slave? Usually sad men liked solitude.

"Don't get used to saying it," he added, "because I'll be handing you over as a gift."

"A geeft?" she said, offended and no longer thinking about sadness. "I'm inzulted. Truly. I've gone from a theeng to be bought to a zometheeng to be given. Chow inchuman do you plan to make me?"

"Fine," he said, shrugging, "What's your name? Even pets have names."

"My nay-me eez Hay-leen," she said, "Hay-leen Artemiz Zcott. Tell me, chow many petz do you know weeth firzt, middle, _and _last nay-mez?" Crabbe sent a backwards glance at her, but didn't say anything.

Inside the house was cold and empty. She didn't like it. With a sigh, she crossed her arms, trying to retain a bit of warmth. At one point she had a figure, but the starvation she was forced through as a slave sapped her of it. The man on the stage called her a pretty girl, but that wasn't true—she used to be beautiful and she knew it. Now she looked like someone who had been stripped of all of that. A year of a living hell could ruin a person. No longer did she look like the woman she was named for, just a pale imitation.

"Where'z your why-fe and tsild?" she asked as they passed a few bedrooms on the second floor.

"How did you know I had a family?" he said.

"Evan—" For a moment she stumbled over the name because even if it had been a year, the pain was still fresh. "Evan, my zon," she continued with better control, "attended Chogwartz. I ree-cogneezed the nay-me Crabbe because your zon ofteen toor-tured mine."

"Vincent is dead," answered the man in a very clipped voice. "He died last June. My wife died a month afterwards."

"My fah-mily'z dead, too," she said because she needed to tell something and she needed to make him guilty. "Vinceent and Evan must chave been keelled on the zay-me day." It hurt to say to it.

"Here is where you'll be sleeping until I turn you over," he said, opening the door to a room. Servants quarters obviously. "I'm sure you'll find the bed comfortable enough. I'll contact my master now and he'll collect you sometime within the next week."

"Your mazteer?" She raised a brow. "Zo a zlave eez geeveeng a zlave az a prezent?"

"I'm not a slave."

"Doez this mazteer pay you, Meezter Crabbe?"

"No, I follow him willingly."

"Eef you ree-fer to zomeone az mazteer, do heez biddeeng, and do eet weethout pay, then you are a zlave."

"A house-elf will come and bring you clothes and a meal." He turned away.

"Way-it—Meester Crabbe," she said, knowing that she had to ask him this one last thing or she'd been wondering about his answer for the entire night, unable to sleep. "I chave a queztion."

"What is it?"

"Why eez eet," she said, "that your people inzizt on buyeeng other chuman beings az zlaves when you alree-ady chave the uze of house-elves, wheets do the work weeth muts more chappiness, muts more eeffice-ently, and are over-all more weelleeng?"

The man leaned against the doorway, thick brows furrowed in thoughts. "I don't know," he answered finally. "You're the first one I've ever bought and I'm not keeping you."

"Do you find thiz wrong at all?" she asked as he turned around again, sitting down on the bed. He was right—it was quite comfortable.

"I'll send the house-elf up as soon as I can." With that he walked away, shutting the door with a decisive click behind him.

For the first time in months, she buried her head in her hands and cried.

.

The following Tuesday found Helen and Crabbe in the dining hall, which a few house-elves had scrubbed down that morning. Surprisingly, the man who bought her for one hundred and six Galleons never bothered to order her around. Actually, he'd allowed her to keep to herself most of the time, in her room with a journal she'd asked a house-elf for. That same creature had brought up the outfit she was wearing today: A simple, but nice robe. This was the best treatment she'd received in months.

"Be polite," said Crabbe and it was the first time she'd heard a commanding tone come out of him. "My master isn't very, er, kind and I don't want to see someone getting put under the Cruciatus Curse in my house."

"Good dzob!" she answered with a pleased smile. "You ac-knowleedged that I waz a chuman being!" He opened his mouth to say something, but someone else Apparated into the room, someone she never thought she'd meet. Ever.

Standing in front of her was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, murderer of thousands. _This _was the man she was a gift for. It had been a while since she'd felt afraid and the feeling hit her full force. Crabbe got down on his knees and kissed his robes.

"So this is the slave you wanted to give me?" said You-Know-Who, his voice high and cold. It took all her will-power not to wince.

"Yes, my lord," answered Crabbe, standing but not making eye contact. Her insides were ice. The Dark Lord seemed amused.

"It doesn't look British," he said, surveying her the same way someone would look at an ancient artifact and judge from what era in time it was from.

"She has an accent," said Crabbe and his master raised a brow at him. His face went a little pale. "I mean, er, you said you wanted someone with a bit of life left in them and it argued right back on stage. I thought you might like something with a little fight left."

"So it hates us, does it?" He looked back to his follower. Helen crossed her arms, a weak attempt to protect herself. "That's good to hear; hatred is what keeps a thing alive. If it does its work well or at least entertains me, you will be rewarded…"

"Thank you, my lord," said Crabbe, giving a sweeping bow. "I hope sh—it is up to your satisfaction."

"Mudbloods are not people," said the Dark Lord, taking her by the upper arm. "You would do best to remember that."

"Goodbye, my lord, it was an honor."

The last glimpse she saw of the sad man and his house was him in front of the table, looking as sad as he was when they first met. Then she was gone, taken away through Apparition by the most feared man in the world.

What did she do to deserve this?

"You will be staying in a room with the rest of them," he said as they appeared again, now in a much more…regal setting. "But every afternoon you will come into my quarters and clean—your way, of course, the Mudblood way. Someone will be sent to you in a moment. Stay here."

And then he left, leaving her standing there in a drafty room and ideas floating around her head.

.

"I need something to call you," he said a few days from then as he lounged on his bed and watched her go about her work. She refused to look at him—the youth in his face frightened her. Rumors for years had told stories of him looking like a snake, but it was quite the opposite. He was more a human with red eyes. "What was your number—"

"My nay-me eez Hay-leen Artemiz Zcott," she answered, though she knew that wasn't what he was asking. "Plee-ase, call me Hay-leen."

"I would curse you for speaking out of term," he said and she shivered at the memory of his Cruciatus, "but now I'm too interested in something. Tell me, where are you from?"

"I am from Greece, wheets eez where my acc-ant eez from." She gave the window another rub. "My fath-eer waz Zweedish and my moth-eer waz Greek." Really, this smudge was not coming off! "I theenk your windows like being dirty," she added.

"Perhaps they dislike Mudbloods cleaning them," he said in a rather offhanded manner. She huffed.

"Eef zo," she said, moving her blonde hair from her face, "then why chave one do the zchrubbeeng?"

The curse hit her back before she could think and her body exploded with pain. In vain, she tried her hardest not to show how badly it hurt. Naturally, she failed, flopping into a ball against the wall. A single whimper came out. Her eyes were shut and it took all her willpower not to cry. Then, as suddenly as it came, it stopped. She stayed there for a moment, still curled against the wall, breathing ragged. A barely audible chuckle came from the direction of the bed. Shaking, she pulled herself up, using the windowsill the stable herself.

With a hit of amusement, he said, "That's for talking back, Scott. And to answer your question, it's simply because I can."

Anger bubbled up and while she knew she should shut her mouth and keep quiet, she couldn't. Usually she was a very rational woman—was still a rather rational woman—but she couldn't find it in her heart to go down without a fight. "Zo I zee that no matter where I look, I weell alwayz find that chuman ztupeedity zteell exeeztz. Perchapz I should be glad that you zay I am inchuman, for I pride myzelf in lackeeng that parti-cular quality."

No curse came. This was not something she expected. Uneasy now, she continued to work at that smudge. Finally, finally it was starting to come off. Silence was heavy, until You-Know-Who's voice cut through the air and said,

"I am much more than a simple human. Much, much more."

Once again, she couldn't help herself. "Then perchapz your ztupeedity eez even greater!"

"I believe I am elevated above the quality you claim all humans have. In fact, I agree with you. Now, why aren't you cleaning?"

Quickly, she moved to the next window now that she was done with _that _one. "Eet eez terr-eebly arrogant to theenk yourzelf above otherz the zay-me as you," she snapped, accent becoming heavier the angrier she felt, "or to eeven chope we chave any zeengle trait in common. For eef you agree weeth me, but go on to zay that you are above the reezt of us, then in truth you do not beelieve me to be right at all."

He arched one brow. This was so frustrating, because no matter what she said, all she was greeted with was amusement. At the same time, though, it was a blessing, for that was the reason why she wasn't trapped in her own mind due to pain by now. Oh, damn him. Damn this all.

"Are you trying to tell me," he said, the light, condescending smile on his face infuriating her, "that I am down on the same level as everyone else?"

"Yes," she said before moving onto yet another window. Almost done.

"And what could possibly make you believe this?"

"Eíste énas anói̱tos," she answered, because she needed to say it, but she couldn't say it in English. _You are a fool. _God forbid she let that slip. "Chave you ever heard of hubris, sir?" she said and watched his reflection in the glass.

Whatever he was about to say was lost, for at that moment, there was a knock at the door. You-Know-Who looked up and gave an impatient, "Enter if you must!"

In came another slave, literally shaking. The boy was younger than her, around seventeen or so. His wide brown eyes seemed larger than usual.

"Speak," said You-Know-Who and his tone turned from amusement to annoyance.

"S-sir," Adam practically squeaked, "your f-followers have gathered. I-I was sent to come and s-see if you had remembered, sir."

"Who sent you?"

"Mr. R-Rookwood, sir."

"Very well. Scott, finish with this then leave." He stood up suddenly and strode to exit. As he passed Adam, Helen heard him say, "Be glad that I am in a kind mood today, or you'd be given as much punishment as Rookwood will be, if not more so."

With that he was gone. In Greek, Helen swore under her breath. Adam gave a frightened squeak then left. Í̱tan énas anói̱tos. _He was a fool. _

Yes, he was indeed.

.

It was a week before they were in the same room together again. This time she was dusting. The anger from before had yet to die down; she realized that the moment she saw him. Even so, she was in a slightly better mood. Slightly. And only because she thought of an idea. It was a risky idea, only a slim chance that it would work, but it was something. A dim flicker of hope, barely there, and she scarcely dared to dwell on it. After all, so many others had failed—Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter, all the Aurors—and she was much different than any of them. Much different because she wasn't important.

What gave her the audacity to think _she _could be the one to save the wizarding world?

Nothing did, really. She was nothing special. Just a mother and wife with a heart so torn to pieces it refused to stop aching. In Ancient Greek mythology, Nemesis was the goddess of righteous revenge. Aphrodite was the goddess of seduction; Hecate the goddess of witchcraft. If they were real, if they were up there, if they were more than just stories, they'd grant her some help. As a slave, she had no weapons at her disposal. But at one point she'd been beautiful like the woman she was named for, and even through all the torture and the starvation and the sadness, a bit of prettiness still clung to her.

Parakaloúme na akoúso̱ ti̱n prosef̱chí̱ mou, ton Ólympo. _Please hear my prayer, Olympus._ Na me voi̱thí̱sei. _Help me. _Voi̱thí̱ste mas na. _Help us. _

Oh, how angry she was that a prayer to most likely no one was all she could do. A prayer and seduction. It was a plan that probably wouldn't work. But Helen had been born an optimist, so as long as the chance wasn't a solid zero, she would try. She would try because the maybe was still there. And right now she would try because someone had to do something and it felt like no one was doing anything.

So god help her if she was getting impatient.

"You're angry," he said, once again lounging on the bed, once again sounding amused.

"You would be too eef you were kept in cage," she said, rapidly losing her temper. Not that it was there to begin with.

"I see no bars." There was a smile in his voice.

"Not all cagez chave barz," she said, moving from the dresser to the desk. Really, why all the furniture? And why did she have to clean them every day? "And both you and I bloody well know theez."

He clucked his tongue. "How quick to set off you are," he said. If she had a wand, she'd curse him five ways to Tuesday. Unfortunately, she didn't. And the whole attempt at seduction thing definitely wouldn't work if she kept on this way.

Or maybe…"I am only queek to set off bee-cauze eet eez you I am talkeeng to. Dzuzt pauze for a moment and theenk of theez from my point of view."

"Terribly sorry," he said mockingly, "but I don't make it a habit of figuring out the thought processes of lesser beings."

"Oh, chow seelly we are for try-eeng theez half-hearted attempt at conversation," she said, a little more of her plan forming. Risky, so risky.

Both her parents were great lovers of literature and it was a trait she inherited. This, of course, meant she'd read a famous little story in the Muggle world by the name _Pride and Prejudice. _While that book had nothing similar to her situation at hand, she found herself able to pull one sold truth from it: By disagreement, argument, and dislike at first, with the slow melting into agreement, civil conversation, and liking over time, could cause attraction. A delicate trick to try and master in such short of time, but she could do it. She was determined.

"We are speaking words back and forth," he said. "Last I checked, that's considered conversation."

"Oh, yes, we are zpee-akeeng to each other," she answered, continuing with her task of dusting, "but we are not zayeeng anytheeng of importance. Zo no, we are not chaving a converzation."

"Tell me, is it possible for us to have a conversation?" The sickest part was that this was nothing more than entertainment for him. Oh, how it made her so angry!

"Perchapz," she said simply. For now she would have to indulge him, just as he was humoring her. "But firzt we would chave to get out of our ztalemate."

In response, he asked, "So what is this stalemate?"

"One of uz eez a fool and the other eez feelled of pride," she answered.

"Which is which?"

"Either of uz feet either the former or the latter, zo eet eez up to both of uz to tsooze who eez who zeparately."

"Is it possible for us to be neither?"

"No, but eet eez poz-eeble for uz to be both," she said firmly, hoping that soon she would be able to turn his amusement to curiosity.

"Too bad, for I was going to claim that you were neither and I was the one filled with pride," he said.

"And why would I be the one who eez neither?" she asked.

"Because you are not worthy enough to be either," he answered.

"Az I thought you would zay. I would zay, though, zat we were both ze one who waz both."

"Why would you consider both of us the one who is both the fool and prideful?"

"Zeemple," she said, though it was not simple at all. "Bee-cauze I am prideful enough not to feel fear around you and therefore I am a fool; you are ze one who eez prideful enough not to zee that he eez the fool. Therefore you are alzo a fool."

This time she saw the curse as she was hit with it and it had the same effect; no matter how hard she tried, the pain overcame her. She curled in a ball on the floor and struggled not to make a sound and not to cry. Somehow she succeeded in the latter, but once again not in the former. A strangled sort of quiet scream came out of her closed mouth. Then it stopped and she forced herself up, trying not to show how the aftermath left her jarred.

"What is foolish about the most brilliant wizard in the world?" he asked as if nothing happened, voice mild.

"Eez my cleaning conseedered adee-quit?" she answered instead of actually answering.

"Yes, I suppose. It doesn't _ look _so grey anymore."

"Then may I make my leeave?"

A small nod. She headed to a door. As she pulled it open, he asked,

"Was that a conversation?"

And she answered with a smile, "No," before exiting the room.

Perhaps this would work after all.

.

Back at home she used to clean with magic, to make her life easy. It had been years since she cleaned the Muggle way. In truth, she'd forgotten how annoying it was. At least as a child, though, before the age of seventeen and when she still lived with her Muggle parents, she and her mother would clean to music. They would sing and somewhat dance, entertained despite the dreariness that occupied the job. Those were some of her happiest memories.

Now, though, she cleaned to silence on the days he wasn't there. And on the days he was, she cleaned to the sounds of voices—the two of them talking. At the end of every time, he would always ask the same thing:

"Was that a conversation?"

And as always, she would answer a simple, "No."

"Do you chave a fah-mily?" she said one afternoon, sweeping the floor of the large room. For once her hair was tied back with a white ribbon, given to her by request to a house-elf named Susie.

"And you ask this why?" he said, for once the usual tone gone from his voice. Instead it sounded clipped and she knew she overstepped a line with the question.

She didn't care.

"I waz dzuzt wondereeng," she answered, "bee-cauze lazt night I waz theenkeeng of what could poz-eeble be your moteeve for all of theez. Takeeng over the Weezardeeng World, I mean."

"I still see no connection."

"I waz wondereeng eef perchapz eet waz bee-cauze you thought your fah-mily would be proud."

"That has nothing to do with, Scott."

In response, she merely shrugged. "I know that eef I were to do zometheeng, it would be bee-cauze it would make my fah-mily proud."

"You had a family?" he asked and since he couldn't see it, she smiled.

"Are you curee-ouz?" she answered because now it was her turn to be the one amused.

"No," he said almost too quickly. "It was simply a question in response to your statement."

"Then my anzwer eez theez," she said, still smiling. "When I waz nineteen, I bee-came pregnant weeth a tsild and made to marry the Muggle man. Zoon after I deevorced cheem when I lozt the tsild. Zeex monthz later I met a weezard nay-med Ereec Zcott from my Chogwartz dayz who waz five yearz my sen-eeor. Che already had two tsildren weeth his late wife. Troy waz two and Evan waz four. We were married in a year. In no time, they were calleeng my 'Mum'. Your men keelled all three of them last year."

"So do you hate me?" he asked.

"Zomewhat," she said. "Though I chate whoever actually keelled them more."

"Only somewhat? Despite me keeping you in…a cage, as you put it?"

"I make eet a prinzeeble not to chate otherz. Perchapz that eez my greateest downfall. Tell me, do you chate me?"

"I make it a principle to hate everyone," he answered, "and perhaps that is my greatest strength."

"I deesagree," she said.

He asked, "And why is that?"

"Bee-cauze no truzt at all eez dzuzt az bad az too muts truzt."

"As usual you have a reasoning behind this, I presume."

"Yez," she said, "for everyone muzt chave the balanze between truzt and no truzt."

"Both of us, then, have this great downfall then," he said.

"True, but you zo more than me. I at leazt chave falleen from my prinzeeble and chate a person. While I am not fully balanzed, I am steell more balanzed than you. Eez my cleaneeng adee-quit?"

"Yes, as it always is once you ask," he answered.

"Then I weell make my leave," she said.

Once she was in the doorway, he asked her, "Was that a conversation?"

In which she answered, "We are getteeng clozer," and left.

"You're very odd," he said on one of the days he was in the room when she was cleaning. These time, in truth, were becoming more frequent.

"How zo?" she asked, slightly startled by the statement.

To which he replied, "You complain not of the actual work and never do it half-heartedly, but instead you have the ability to insult my work and myself without fear. Unless I curse you, you do not shake in my presence. You are not silent. To put it simply, you're the opposite of everyone else here."

"I chave notheeng to be afraid of," she said, "for you chave already taken everytheeng from me. And in all my trails in getteeng chere, I chave been through worze."

"And what were these trails?"

"Occazionally," she said, rejoicing in the fact that now the amusement was out of his words, "the monzterz that cheld uz bee-fore we were zold neglected the uze of mageecle torture. I chave enough zcares on my zckeen and in my mind to make a grown man weeth a cheart cry."

"I believe you are implying that I would not cry," he said and she nodded. "Well, you're right. Crying is a weakness I do not indulge myself with."

"Eet eez not alwayz a weaknez," she said. "Zometimez one needz to cry to ztop us from reliveeng horrorz or zadnez. Zometimez to ztop fruztration."

"Do you cry, Scott?"

"Yez," she answered honestly. "Not often and not in view of otherz, but yez, I do cry."

"Well, I do not and I see no reason to."

"Then I am very zad for you, zir," she said, "bee-cauze now I muzt bee-leeve you chave no cheart."

"I can show you I have a heart."

"I doubt that."

"Come," he commanded and with a resigned sigh, she put her cloth down on the shelf and walked to him.

Once she was level with the man, who was once again sitting on the bed, he took his hand and grabbed her wrist. In the upmost cliché, and one he probably wouldn't know since she doubted he read fiction, he placed her palm against the left side of her chest. As expected, she could feel the heartbeat beneath her fingers. He let go of her hand. She let hers linger for a moment longer before dropped her arm.

"Is that proof enough for you?" he asked.

"Eet provez that you chave one in your body, but eet doez not prove that you have the meteephorical one that would make you cry." With that, she turned heel and went back to the cloth, where she resumed cleaning.

"Where are the scares you speak of?"

"All over me, zir. I deed not like to be obedient."

"I could easy guess that," he said, then paused. After a moment, he said, "If I were to ask you to drop your robe and let me see, would you?"

"No," she answered, "bee-cauze az a reezpectable woman, I do not deezrobe in front of men I do not truzt."

"I thought you didn't hate me."

"I zaid zomewhat. And hatred and truzt are not the zay-me theeng."

"Yet earlier you used them synonymously."

She shrugged, then said, "Eez my cleaneeng adee-quit?"

"Yes."

"Then I weell take my leeave," she said.

As usual:

"Was that a conversation?"

"Nearly."

.

The dim flicker of hope had grown over the past weeks, months really, that were slowly stretching towards a year. Every day she checked the date. It had been January 22, 1997. Now it was June 18, 1997. Outside the weather looked nice and warm, but as usual, she was stuck inside. Only when attending to the gardens was she allowed to leave and it was always in the supervision of one of those dressed in black. But, alas, now she was in his room, cleaning like every afternoon. And, as was happening more and more often, the man himself lay on the bed.

Somehow, her scheme to be working. She was wary, though, for she never knew entirely. After all, she had been hit by her fair share of Cruciatus Curses over the past month. But his amusement had turned to curiosity and his eyes would travel to her more and more. Still, he always asked, "Was this a conversation?" Every time her answer was, "Nearly," or, "Almost." These replies, it seemed, frustrated him. Probably he was wondering how it was _not _a conversation when clearly they were talking back and forth.

She'd let him figure that one out on his own.

"You're hair is falling from its ribbon," he said suddenly on that warm June day. She blinked and turned around. A few strands fell in her eyes.

"My," she said, mildly surprised, "you're right."

So she paused what she was doing and untied the ribbon, keeping her fine blonde hair up with one hand. With the other, she placed the white ribbon in her mouth to stop it from falling. Then she used both her hands to pull back the hair that was falling out. Really, she missed the convenience of hair bands. She took the ribbon from her mouth and proceeded to tie up her hair as she had so many times over the past few months. Better, much better.

"Thank you," she said because there was nothing else _to _say. "I chadn't noteezed."

"The first time we spoke," he said and it was with satisfaction that she realized he didn't use the word conversation, "you asked me if I knew the term 'hubris'. I do. Why were you wondering?"

"Bee-cauze you are blinded by eet," she answered.

"And what am I blinded from?" he asked.

"The zeemple that you are not the mozt danger-eeous man who haz ever leeved," she said, wondering if she crossed the line again.

"Oh, I assure you that I am indeed the most dangerous wizard who has ever lived," he said. "And it's true that it is something I am very proud of."

"I zaid 'man', not 'weezard'," she said, nearly laughing as the not-fully-hidden look of confusion on his face.

"And who might this man or men be?"

"They are Muggle men," she said, turning to look at him. Her cleaning was done, anyway, and definitely adequate. She would ask soon enough, then leave. "They are the onez who make your Keelleeng Curse look like a blezeeng."

When the Cruciatus Curse hit her, she managed not to make a sound. After you were hit enough, you learned. Especially if you had a willpower as strong as hers.

"What have these man done that make my Killing Curse look like a blessing?" he asked coldly and she was wondered her work had been reversed. No, if she kept composed, maybe, just maybe, this would all continue as she hoped. Yes, optimism would prevail.

"In the Muggle world, they lack the abeelity to keell weeth dzuzt a few words, zo they eemprovize. A very recent eveel man would cherd people like cattle to a plaze where they would be ztarved, thrown into a peet zo they would burn alive, worked to death. Infants would be uzed for target practize. Men would shoot men for the fun of eet, bee-cauze they were told, bee-cauze eet was war. From what I ree-call, you should chave been around for the Bleetz. Millionz died bee-cauze of cheem."

With an apathetic tone, he said, "I was in Hogwarts at the time. But yes, I have heard of the bombings of London."

"There was another man," she continued, "who would zend men to the coldeest aree-a in all of Russia, and would alzo kill by the thouzandz. No one knowz chow many che murdered. In the dayz of Ancee-ant Rome, men were chung on crozez, ztuck there by nails. They would be left for dayz until they died. In the Meeddle Ages, there were too many wayz to toor-ture a perzon. Eet would take too long from me to tell them all.

"Dzack the Ripper zlashed women to shreds. H. H. Cholmes built a hotel for the zole purpoze of keelleeng woman weeth gaz. Doctorz tried to cure inzaneety weeth pain. In Africa, men keell men and rape women over dzuzt about anything. Terroiztz keell otherz in the name of God. Choly warz break out bee-cauze people refuze to accept other bee-leefz. Oh, and then there were the zlaves…Let'z not even touts _that _zubdzect."

After a moment, he said, "So you mean to tell me that Muggle killings can be more painful than Wizard killings?"

"Yez," she answered, crossing her arms.

"I suppose you could be correct," he said, "if we couldn't do both."

"That'z exactly my point," she said, vaguely impatient. "You zay you can do both, and then only do one. Not that I am zaying that you should do both, bee-cauze one eez bad enough. What I am zaying eez that your hubris ztopz you from zeeing that Mugglez can be equal, at leazt in termz of murdererz."

"You make an interesting argument, Helen," he said and it was the first time he used her name. "And, hypothetically, if I didn't find Muggles and Mudbloods and revolting as I do, then maybe I could agree with you."

"Eíste énas anói̱tos," she said, a repeat from their first time talking. A smile was threatening to come to her face. Really, it sounded like he _was _agreeing already. He was just too stubborn to admit it.

He ignored the Greek. "And what is the point of discussing hubris?"

"Every chuman being haz that one theeng that weell ruin them. Lack of truzt in anyone and the chatred of everyone may be your downfall, but hubris weell deztroy you. That eez your greatest flaw."

"And what would yours me?" he asked.

With a smile, she answered, "I don't know. Eef I did, then eet would not be my greatest flaw. A perzon cannot zee cheez or cher greatest flaw. Eez my cleaneeng adee-quit?"

"As always."

"Until next time, then, zir," she said, giving a light nod of her head before leaving.

Then the expected:

"Was this a conversation?"

For the first time:

"Yez."

Startled, he asked, "Why—"

By that point, she was already gone.

.

"What was the difference between our last conversation and all the other times we spoke?" he asked a week later. It was the first time she'd seen him since then and she wondered if he'd spent that time puzzling over what she meant.

"You are a zmart man," she answered, scrubbing at that same window again. "I am zoor you weell underztand on your own."

Silence. Then he said, "You are one of the most insufferable people I have ever talked to. Of course, not as bad as Albus Dumbledore, but definitely more so than many of the fools who claim to be my closest friends."

"Eef I am zo inzuffereeble, then why converze weeth me at all?" she said, thoroughly enjoying herself.

"It's better than sitting here and watching you clean," he said.

"Wheets eez why I converze back," she said. "Eet eez better than cleaneeng in silence."

"Did they mistake you?" he said.

"What?"

"Did they mistake you?" he repeated. "Do you have any Wizarding blood in you at all?"

Shrugging, she said, "I am not zoor. I chave never checked myzelf, but I do not believe zo. Both my parentz and their parentz were Mugglez."

"I figured as much," he said, though she thought she heard (though it may have be just hope) a bit of disappointment in his voice. "What was your maiden name?"

"Eld," she answered. "Eet eez Zweedish, my fath-eer's lazt nay-me."

"Come here," he said, sitting up. Warily, she walked to him, reminded of the time he put her hand to his heart.

As she stood in front of him, thoughts running wild through her head, she looked straight into his face. It was the face of someone ageless—but definitely not that of a snake. The red eyes. It was his only inhuman feature this close up. His hair was black, the same color of her late husband. This was possibly the most frightening moment of her life.

"Zir—"

She was cut off suddenly by her mouth connecting with him. Shocked at first, she stood still. Then her mind caught up with the situation and with a loud mental cheer, she kissed back. Hard to believe, really, that it worked. Or, well, was starting to work. It would take much more than a single kiss to bring him down. No, she would get him to fall in love with her then break him. She _would _cause Lima Syndrome.

When they finally pulled away, she looked at him and asked, "Eez my cleaneeng adee-quit?"

"Yes," he answered.

"That was a conversation, wasn't it?" he said as she walked through the doorway. She paused, looked back, and smiled.

"You zteell need to figure out why," she answered and left.

Life, she decided, was really looking up.

.

She had long since finished cleaning, instead standing across from the bed, leaning against from the wall. Her arms were crossed. As he'd entered the room, she'd completed her work and rather than letting her go, he told her to stay. By now it had been four weeks since that kiss and...whatever this was seemed to be evolving quite quickly. Of course, it wasn't nearly enough for her to do anything yet, since she didn't have the resources and he lacked the trust. But just the simple fact that it could work—that it _would _work—was absolutely amazing. She scarcely dared to think it.

"You can come closer," he said, earning a laugh in return.

"I deed not know, zir," she answered, almost mockingly, "that I waz allowed to trezpaz without permizion."

He arched a brow at her, but rather than saying anything else, she pushed herself off the wall and went over. Then, though a moment of daring, she sat down on the bed he was lying on, back against the headboard. When no objection came, some of the tension of expectation left her shoulders.

"What house were you in?" he asked.

"Guez," she said with a smile, "and eef you get eet right, I weell be shocked."

"Gryffindor," he answered with certainty. Quickly, she shook her head. "No? Definitely not Slytherin, then."

"Of courze not Zlytherin!" she said. "But there are other houzez than dzuzt Gyffeendor and Zlytherin."

"It surely mustn't be Hufflepuff," he said and she once again shook her head. Something like relief passed over his face. "Then you were in Ravenclaw."

"Yez," she answered, "and eet waz there that my tsildchood decizion to bee-come a teatser bee-came, to me, the only option."

"You taught at a Wizarding school?"

Once again, she shook her head. "I wanted to," she said, "but what I wanted to teats chiztory and Profezor Beenz would not geeve up heez pozition. Zo inztead I zettled in teatseeng chiztory in a Muggle zecondary ztsool."

"No wonder no one's ever taken over that class," he said, looking up at the ceiling. She found it rather odd that when alone—or, well, just the two of them—he was so relaxed. Outside he was the usual tyrannical human he was thought to be. If it weren't for these conversations, she would be tempted to call him a sociopath. That would, after all, explain a lot of his actions in life. "In all my Hogwarts years, that was the worst class."

"I deesagree," she said, "though eet would chave been better eef eet waz taught by a different teatser. I like chiztory and would chave been glad to take over."

"Maybe you would successfully make Goblin wars interesting," he said and they (yes, they, surprisingly) shared a laugh.

"Perchapz," she answered. "In the Muggle ztsool, I taught World Chiztory—a beet of everything."

"Like the 'dangerous' men you told me about."

"Yez, of courze. After all, the mozt important and interezting partz of chiztory involve violenze, do they not?"

"I wouldn't know. I was taught by Professor Binns."

"Oh, yez, chow could I forget zuch mizfortune?"

"Do you prefer Muggle history or Wizarding history?"

"Both are very different," she answered with a shrug, "therefore I cannot paz dzudgment on wheets one eez better. My favor-eete zubdzect, though, eez in Muggle chiztory."

"And that would be?"

"I̱ Olympian Éti," she answered. "The Olympian Yearz. The Greek mythz that I cheard az a tsild. My meeddle nay-me, wheech is Artemiz, waz the nay-me of one of the Olympian goddezez. She waz Artemiz, goddezez of the chunt, weeldernez, wild anee-malz, and plague. Eet eez an chonor that my parentz blezed my weeth." He mumbled something under his breath. "What?"

"Nothing," he said and sat up so that he was next to her. "I have a question for you."

"And what would eet be?"

"Is it due to your knowledge of the past dangerous in the Muggle world that you weren't afraid of me?"

"Yez," she answered and it was partially true. If it were 1940, she would be dealing with the Blitz and the onslaught of World War Two. If it were the Medieval Times, she would be dealing with the witch trials held all throughout Europe, or tortured for originally getting pregnant without first being married. If it were the 1700s, she could be caught up in the Seven Year War. There was a wide array of things worse than this. "Dzuzt inztead of lookeeng at a gun to my face, I waz lookeeng at a wand. Zince both keell, I zee not muts differenze."

"And yet you do not hate me."

"No. But do you chate me?"

A pause. "No."

"Then we chave a mutual agreement that we do not chate each other," she said, satisfied. "I should leeave. The otherz weell be wondereeng where I am."

"Goodbye," he said and she stood up and left. There was no question at the doorway.

By now they both knew it was a conversation.

"So those are you scars," he said two days later, running his fingers lightly across her stomach as the robe fell off. She shivered at his touch. "There really are many…"

"I deed not lie," she answered, gently kissing his shoulder. "They were not kind, thoze men."

"I can't imagine they were."

In a flurry, every other garment of clothing came off of the two of them, laying scattered on the floor beside the bed. The white ribbon fell from her hair, forgotten amongst the bed sheets. She shut her grey eyes and his mouth touched hers. With one hand he moved hair from her face and the other snaked along her back before moving her. When he pulled away, she was looking directly up at her. That second hand left her back.

"You're a wreck," he said quietly, lips barely off of hers.

"Does it disturb you?" she whispered.

"No," he answered.

_This is only because it's necessary_, she said to herself as her thin arms wrapped around him and pulled his mouth back to hers.

A soft sound was made and she wasn't sure which of them it was from.

_This has to happen. _

Like two awkward teenagers about to take each other's virginity, he looked down at her for approval.

_I have to go through with this. _

Nervous, she nodded.

_I can do this; I know I can. _

There was another soft a sound, a squeak, and this time she knew it came from her.

_I'm so sorry, Troy. _

No matter what she tried to tell herself, it felt good, so good.

_I'm sorry, Evan. _

It was so long since she'd been in this state that she supposed it was inevitable.

_I love you, Eric, I'm sorry. _

As he kissed her, she kissed back and it was wonderful.

_I'm only doing this because it's necessary. _

"If I hurt you at all, I'm sorry."

_I'm going to hell. _

"No, I'm fine."

_Hades, take pity on me. _

Oh, how she hated herself in this moment.

_I'm only doing this because it's necessary. _

When they finished and lay there, pressed together, those words were repeating like a mantra in her head. Tears were threatening to spill from her eyes. And no matter how hard she tried to stop them, they came anyway and she was sobbing suddenly into his chest because that wasn't supposed to feel good. He didn't ask, just wrapped his arms around her. She figured he thought why he knew why she was crying. Hell, maybe he was right because she didn't know anymore. She didn't know anything.

_Na me voi__̱__thí__̱__sei, Aphrodite, _she prayed. _Help me, Aphrodite._

_._

"I'm zorry," she said the next day as they once again lay together on the bed. Once again, he'd come in just as she finished and now they were simply "enjoying each other's company", if it could be put in such a way.

"For what?" he asked.

"For yesterday," she answered.

A pause. Then: "It was no problem by me."

"Eet waz rude."

"Wrong."

"Chow zo?"

"It was expected."

Surprised by his direct answer, she adjusted herself so that she was on her side, facing him. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling. If he was waiting for her to speak, he would never say anything at all. She was too perplexed to say a coherent word, so she stuck with silence. Finally, he spoke and said,

"I can't pretend to be good with understanding people, but I think I may have gotten something right. After all, I have you trapped here. It was by the hands of my men that your family died. You were never able to properly say goodbye. You can't leave here. To use your words, I have you in a cage. So after last night, it's only expected that you would cry. Didn't you say yourself that sometimes a person has to cry to stop themselves from reliving horrors?"

Her surprise was increasing more and more. Never had she thought that he actually listened to her the first few times they spoke, back when he still sounded amused. No wonder all her students did well—if she managed to capture the most feared wizard of the age's attention, then surely she must have caught the attention of a class of teenagers.

Wait, no, they were teenagers. That still didn't mean anything.

"You're right," she said quietly, moving so she was once again on her back. Then she said again, "You're right."

"You should probably go, Helen," he said suddenly, almost as if he'd checked the time. She sat up.

"Yez, I zuppoze. The otherz are getteeng curiouz." They sat up.

"Goodbye," he said, giving her a kiss.

"Antío," she answered. _Goodbye. _

When she was at the door, he said, "If you weren't a Muggle born—"

"And eef you weren't you," she said, cutting him off. "But we are who we are and theez eez what eet eez. I weesh eet could be different, too."

As the door was slowly swinging shut behind her, she heard a very soft voice that wasn't directed at her. He said, "You get what you get and you don't get upset." With a frown, she walked away and wondered if he heard that as a child.

It was a nice thought.

"Chow old are you?" she asked one afternoon in late August, pulling the blankets up to her shoulders to hide her naked body. It didn't matter how often he'd seen her in this state—the lack of clothes made her uncomfortable. After all those months of starvation and the still small amounts of food she received now, her pretty figure was so diminished and her ribs so prominent that she was ashamed to even look at herself. He, too, seemed uncomfortable, as the sheets were pulled up quite high on him as well.

"Do you mean my date of birth or my age from rebirth?" he answered.

To which she said, "I zuppoze both."

"My rebirth was four years ago, so I would be four," he said bluntly. She shivered at the thought. "The day of my birth was December 31, 1929."

"But that would make you nearly zixty as of next Dezember!" she exclaimed, eyes wide. "You look az though you are no older than eighteen! Of courze, I knew you weren't that young, but—"

"Yes, immortality will do that," he said with a smile.

"Immortaleety eez impozible," she answered. "Even the godz and goddezez of the Ancient Greekz were not completely zo!"

He clucked his tongue and said, "You seem to forget I have a certain ability with a certain branch of magic at my disposable."

"Even zo, that shouldn't be—that eez not—I cannot—Chow eez eet—"

"Shh," he said and pressed a finger to her lips. "Do not fret. I would takes days to explain, even more so with our limited time."

"Zorry, but you muzt underztand—"

"I do, Helen," he said and kissed her forehead. "And perhaps I'm not completely immortal, but I am close enough that age or death will never be a problem for me."

Despite what he probably thought, her shock was not from simply hearing that someone could be immortal; it was the _thought_ that someone could be. That _he_ could be. Now her whole plan—Well, it wasn't shot to pieces just yet. No, she would revise it. That was all. This was not something she expected and she doubted it was something she could beat.

"I would theenk eet would be zcary not to die," she said after a while, now a bit more calmed down.

"Why would that be?"

"Bee-cauze one day you would chave to be all alone," she answered, "weethout anyone to talk to. You'd chave to zee the world die."

Silence. "I suppose," he said eventually. "How old are you?"

"Eet eez rude to azk a woman cher age," she said, though she wasn't really offended. Then she laughed and said, "I am twenty-eight, az of July twenty-zecond."

"Hm. I thought you were younger."

"What, am I too old for you?"

"Quite the contrary."

"Then that'z good to chear."

The rest of the time was spent in oddly comfortable silence, the only sound the rain against the window. The downpour was violent this afternoon, much worse than the day before. With a sort of nostalgic fondness, she remembered that the morning of her wedding with Eric had been in the same state. For a moment she'd been so startled that she'd suggested moving the wedding off another day, possibly the next Wednesday, when the Muggle weather forecast said it was to clear skies. Eric, though, had laughed it off. They'd gotten married that morning, in the pouring rain, not paying mind for the guests or their precious wedding clothes. The vows had to be screamed over the wind.

Oh, what an peculiar wedding it had been. An even stranger honeymoon. First they went up to Sweden before traveling to Ireland, then across Europe, finally ending up in Greece. In her quaint hometown, they met up with family she hadn't seen in years and for a week they had to go without magic. After all, that part of her family was none the wiser to what she _really _was. Both had been so wonderful. If only she'd been able to turn all those happy moments and good thoughts and cheerful words into liquid. Then she would have put it in a bottle, where she would take little sips of it to make her happy again when she felt sad.

Unfortunately even magic couldn't go that far. Yet it could bring about near-immortality, if what he claimed was true. There was no logic in magic half the time. But then again, when was it ever _supposed _to be logical? She let out a sigh and sat up because with her thoughts jumping everywhere at once and those lovely memories threatening to burst through her mind, she couldn't be here.

"I should leeave," she said as he sat up too.

"Yes," he said. "You should."

No words were exchanged as she slid from the bed and gathered her clothes. Silence continued through the quick process of dressing, something that had become mechanical by now. She could not look rumpled at all when she left or people would get suspicious. And suspicion was a thing that needed to be avoided.

"I'm sorry if I scared you," he said as she grabbed her ribbon off the nightstand and tied back her hair.

"You deed not zcare me," she said, turning around. "Ztartled me, yez, but not zcare."

"Good." They kissed. "I'll see you again tomorrow."

"Antío."

.

Paranoia was growing inside of her. Not that this wouldn't work, no, since all seemed fine now, but that others in the building knew. Or thought they knew. True, she had been staying longer and longer with him now and if they did have speculations, they could very well be based on that. It didn't help that now she was very skittish, always glancing around. If someone approached her, she would flinch. No, not because she thought it was him; but because she thought someone was going to ask her the reason why.

Of course, no one ever did approach her on the matter. Perhaps it was just her imagination acting up. But what wasn't her imagination were the people whispering as she passed. Though she never caught their words, she caught their tone. She didn't like what she heard—rather than accusing, they sounded sympathetic. So now she had speculations on their speculations and no one would ask anyone anything and it was all one big mess.

She did not voice this thought for a long, long time.

"I heard a very curious rumor," he said the afternoon of December twenty-third. "One pertaining to us."

Instantly she froze. "What eez eet?"

"That you had become 'the boss' favorite'," he answered, "and that there was something to be done about it."

"What do you mean?" she asked, frightened. Oh, this was terrible!

"A rebellion, I suppose," he said with a shrug. "I don't know what they think they'll accomplish against wands."

"Well, dureeng the Haitian Rebelleeon againzt the Frents, thoze weeth gunz lozt to thoze throweeng coconutz." He stared at her incredulously and she realized that he had no idea what she was talking about. "Zorry, when I'm nervouz, I ztart zaying random chiztory factz."

"It's all right," he said, though he still looked slightly confused. "But what I was going to ask was if you knew anyway to stop this act of foolishness."

Suddenly her mind cleared and she realized that this—that this was the perfect opportunity. She could _use _this in her favor; in everyone's favor!

"I—I could try to tell them otherwise," she said, now fidgeting where she stood. "But I'm not zoor what good that weell do."

"I could just let it happen," he said offhandedly. "They won't win."

"That would be—no!" she said, now pacing back and forth. "By now the rumor muzt chave reatsed your men, az well. And eef eet hazn't already, then eet weell."

"What you say is true."

"I should chave been leeaveeng chere earleer. Theez wouldn't chave happened eef I chad."

"You can't be certain of that."

"Do you chave any ideaz?" she asked.

"Besides killing them all, no," he answered.

"Not a zingle one?"

There was a moment in which all she did was pace and all he did was stand there. Then he said, "I could say you're inadequate and sell you again. But that's the last option."

Immediately she stopped her pacing and wheeled around to face him. Outwardly, she was horrified. Inwardly, she was cheering. In two steps she was in front of him, crying into his shoulder, hands clinging to his shirt.

"Don't!" she said, shaking her head. "Pleaze, don't."

"Do you have any more ideas?" he asked softly, wrapping his arms around her.

After a moment, she said through her tears, "Yez, but we could never do eet."

"Why?"

"Bee-cauze eet would eenvolve runneeng away." Ergasía, she prayed. _Work. _"We could dzuzt forget all theez. Y-you could tsange around my fam-eely tree…put a wizard in there. Go off to a different country…Greece, perchapz, or Amer-eeca."

So many silences this afternoon, so many moments she had to wait. It was expected then, when it took him a while to reply. Finally he said, "Well, I've always wanted to see Egypt."

She stilled. Dare she believe it? "Zo…you mean you'd want to?"

"Of course," he answered simply.

Breathing became easier. Slowly she pulled away from his chest, hands still wrapped in his robes, but now looking up at him. He wiped away her tears.

"When?" she asked.

"December thirty-first," he answered immediately. A smile broke out over her face. This was perfect, this was perfect! She'd pull him away from England, keep him away from his habits. Perhaps he'd go back after she died or something of the sort, but by that point a resistance movement should be strong enough. Maybe England could one day be rid of him once and for all.

"W-we can zelebrate a late Tsiztmaz," she said, throwing her arms around him, this time with a wide grin on her face rather than tears in her eyes. "We can go anywhere! Where would you like to go?"

He said, "We could travel, you know. We don't need to settle in just one place."

"Yez, yez of courze." Oh, she could absolutely dance with glee right now. "But where would we go firzt? Eet should be zomewhere cloze, then we weell go around from there—"

"Denmark?" he suggest and she nodded immediately. "Then it's agreed. On December thirty-first, we'll meet here as usual and leave, go off to Denmark."

"Put theez all behind uz," she said. Who knew rumors could do wonders? "Well, for now, I should leeave."

"Goodbye," he said.

"Antío," she answered. As she turned and left, the smile dropped and misery filled her.

But, she though, martyrdom was not supposed to be easy.

.

As she lay with her back against the floor, using the last of her strength to prop herself up on her elbows, she wondered what she did wrong. Everything, absolutely everything, appeared to be going fine. If that was so, then why was she shaking? Why was she on the floor? Why had he just tortured her? What was going on?

"You think I didn't know?" he said and his voice was as cool as the first time they'd met. "Such foolish little things, you Mudbloods are."

"What—"

"_Crucio!_"

And she screamed. She screamed because like all the others ones today, this spell was worse than before. Abruptly it stopped, leaving her breathing heavily. Getting air into her lungs was now a hassle.

"I'll admit," he continued, walking back and forth, always in her line of sight, "that you did capture my attention at first. But don't think you ever truly tricked me. You were a good actress, with all those tears and those arguments, but you were not good enough to deceive me."

"Then why would you play along?" she snapped, because she knew there was no use pretending. Even if she didn't have a wand, and she could barely move, she wouldn't go down without a fight. "Why did you bother yourzelf weeth a Mudblood?"

With amusement, he replied, "I may be more than a man, but I am still a man. If I need to satisfy myself, then why not do it with a slave supporting a pretty face? And using force gets so dull after a while."

"Zo what? Now you intend to keell me?"

"Yes, of course. And if any rebellion starts on your behalf, they'll be crushed instantly. I see no harm. You were a fool to ever think you would accomplish anything."

She laughed humorlessly. "And do not forget feelled weeth pride," she said bitterly.

"No, mustn't forget that," he answered. "You said yourself that you're both, did you not?"

"As are you. You weeth a hubris zo large that eet weell one day crush you."

"Last I checked, Scott," he said, "you also said that lack of trust in anyway would be my downfall. I see that you are wrong, for if I had trusted _you _then I would half way to Denmark by now, wouldn't I? Yes, with the _love of my life_ wrapped in arms."

"Zomeone weell keell you," she said. "Don't doubt eet. And I weell rejoice, bee-cauze I weell know that I was right."

"Haven't I told you? I'm immortal!"

"Near immortal. Do not theenk yourzelf invinzible."

"You know," he said, "I think I've figured out what your downfall is."

To which she answered, "Yez, I do theenk I figured that one out az well."

"It's your inability to realize how terrified you should be," he said, as though he hadn't heard her. "If you'd been afraid since the beginning, then none of this would have happened. You wouldn't have to die."

"But we die eventually," she said. "At leazt I die weeth knowing I zuczeded in zomething!"

"And what might that be?"

"Theenk about eet," she said. "You'll know."

Then he pointed his want at her and asked, "Why did we suddenly start having conversations?"

"When you treated me az a human," she answered, calm now, because she knew that while she ultimately failed, she did win. She won with one small thing.

"Was this a conversation?"

"No."

There was a flash of green light, no pain at all, and all that was left was a corpse on the floor.

.

Tom Riddle looked down at the body at his feet. Even in death, those pretty grey eyes still looked up him accusingly. Shame to lose her, when she was so much fun. Somehow, he suspected, he would never lose her judgment. A small, satisfied smile came to his face because now another nuisance of the world was gone, another example made. Then the smiled dropped.

_At least I die with knowing I succeeded at something_, she'd said. But what could it be?

And then it hit him—he never figured it out. He never once figured out what made their exchange of words a conversation. But that wasn't it, that wasn't her victory. It was something much, much worse.

Every time he thought of her, he never used the word 'it.'


End file.
